Petals in the Storm: Book 3 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 9

  She accepted his reason with an unflattering lack of enthusiasm. "I suppose it's necessary."

  They went into the salon and she poured brandy for them both. Then she kicked off her sandals and curled up on one of the sofas. "Should I have asked Cynthia Northwood how long you must stay to uphold your reputation? Perhaps I should make up a bed in one of the spare rooms, since no one would expect to see you before morning."

  He refused to be drawn. "I'll slip out the back door in an hour or so. It would be a blow to both our reputations if I left too soon."

  Wandering across the room, he found an antique chess set on a small game table. The chess pieces were designed as a medieval court. The smooth enameled figures were about three inches high, and each was a sculpture with individual, hand-drawn features.

  Rafe picked up the white queen, an exquisite golden-haired lady riding a white palfrey, then glanced at Maggie. The resemblance was undeniable. The queen, the most powerful figure on the board.

  Setting the piece down, he lifted the black king from the opposite side of the board. His dark face arrogant and hawklike, the king brandished a sword from a rearing charger. Rafe studied the figure for a moment, wondering if he imagined its resemblance to himself. The kings were the ultimate objectives in chess, but had relatively little power themselves.

  It was not unlike the game he and Maggie were playing, with the white queen in charge and the king standing by. But they were on the same side, weren't they?

  He lifted the fair-haired white king. The face was cool and enigmatic, and it took little imagination to see the figure as Robert Anderson. If it was an omen, it was a disturbing one.

  Rafe set down the white king. "Care for a game of chess? At the reception, you promised me better amusement at your home."

  Maggie rose gracefully and joined him at the chess board. "If you wish. You'll find that my playing has improved a bit. Shall we toss a coin to see who plays white?"

  Traditionally white moves first, an advantage, but Rafe picked up the white queen again, admired the proud chin, then handed it to Maggie. "She could only be yours."

  They sat down and began. In younger days, Maggie had played with a wild brilliance that occasionally brought victory, but more often led to defeat against Rafe's more thoughtful style. Now they were evenly matched. He was interested to see that she still played boldly, but with a much keener eye for strategy.

  An hour passed where the only words were an occasional compliment on a good move. When the clock struck eleven, Maggie looked up in surprise. "At the risk of seeming a poor hostess, I must ask you to leave. We can finish the game another day. I doubt that anyone is watching the house, but just in case, I'll show you to the rear door where you can slip out unobserved."

  Rafe followed her through the halls, admiring the house. Though not exceptionally large, it had been designed to feel spacious and every detail was perfect. It was very much the home of a gentlewoman, reinforcing the idea that it was not supported on a spy's wages. He wondered acidly how many lovers were contributing to the establishment.

  When Maggie turned to face him at the back door, Rafe was surprised to see how small she seemed in her stocking feet. The top of her head scarcely reached his chin. She looked young and soft and utterly desirable, and the air between them seemed charged with possibilities.

  Once Margot Ashton had looked up at him with just such an expression in her eyes. For a moment Rafe's world tilted as the past and present crashed together. He desired her with all the passionate intensity of twenty-one; he wanted to bury his face in tangles of golden hair, to discover one by one the mysteries of Margot's laughing, elusive spirit and lush body.

  It was a painful moment of disorientation, and his only salvation was that the present-day Maggie was unaware of it. A faint tremor went through him as he fought the urge to draw her into his arms. Experience told him that it would be better to play a waiting game. She desired him; allow time for her desire to grow. If he moved too quickly, she would become antagonistic instead.

  He bid her a polite good night, and hoped that it was a trace of disappointment that he saw in her eyes. Then he walked down the steps, crossed the stable yard, and turned left into a narrow, deserted alley.

  He was far too restless to retire tamely to his apartments. He considered going to the Palais Royale to find a card game or a woman, but the prospect did not appeal. Deciding to walk, he headed toward the Place Vendôme.

  Maggie was irresistibly on his mind. Even when she was eighteen her innocence had existed only in his mind, so it should be no surprise to learn that she had joined the company of women who collected expensive tributes in return for their favors. It was very common where women had greater beauty than fortune. He didn't think it would be fair to call her a courtesan; she had merely found a practical way to combine business and enjoyment.

  At least she also had goals beyond her own pleasure. Presumably she chose her lovers both for wealth and for the information they could provide. In bed with a woman like Maggie, a man might say anything and not care, nor remember it later.

  He entered the octagonal Place Vendôme, which was nearly deserted at this hour. In the center was an enormously tall pillar that Napoleon had erected to commemorate the Battle of Austerlitz. The bronze spiral that twined up the column had been made by melting down the twelve hundred cannon Bonaparte had captured at that battle. Not surprisingly, the Prussians wanted to pull the column down.

  His mouth twisted. It was hard to care about politics when his mind was disabled by lust. He might as well face the fact that he wanted Maggie for a mistress. Though it was true that he had bedded women that could be considered more beautiful, he had never known one who was so alluring.

  In spite of her protests, she was not indifferent to him, and this evening her hostility seemed to have lessened. It was time for them to put aside the past and enjoy each other as they were now, without recriminations or complications.

  Instead of sparring with her, he would make a straightforward offer. Perhaps part of the reason she had been so adamant about keeping her distance was because she didn't want to give away what usually was a source of profit.

  Well, he was a reasonable man and recognized that Maggie had to support herself. Though he had never paid for a mistress before, he was willing to make an exception in her case. In fact, he was prepared to be extremely generous. If she agreed to a long-term arrangement, he would even consider making a permanent financial settlement so she would have some security for the future.

  He turned decisively and headed back to the Boulevard des Capucines. Though it was late, he returned to the alley behind her house, hoping for some sign that she was still awake, perhaps as restless as he was himself.

  As he scanned her windows, he saw a stealthy figure coming along the alley from the other direction. Rafe stepped farther back into the shadows so that he wouldn't be seen.

  Instead of passing by, the other man stopped and looked around warily. Rafe flattened himself against the wall, glad that he was wearing dark clothing.

  Apparently satisfied that he was unseen, the stranger climbed Maggie's back steps and knocked at the door. It swung open immediately. Maggie was standing inside, illuminated by a lamp in her hand. She had changed to a flowing dark robe and her bright hair was loose around her shoulders, like the white queen.

  Her visitor bent to kiss her, and Rafe stayed to watch no more.

  The stealthy newcomer was Robert Anderson, the white king himself. No wonder she had talked to him with such intensity at the reception; they had been setting up an assignation.

  Rafe was coldly furious without quite understanding why. He knew that Maggie had lovers, so why should it anger him to see one entering? It certainly wasn't jealousy; he hadn't felt jealous about a woman since... since he was twenty-one, and Margot had betrayed him with Northwood.

  He swore out loud, rejecting the idea. His anger was not a result of jealousy, but concern for his mission. Maggie had been told not to
associate with the lesser members of the British delegation, yet she was defying Lucien's orders.

  This was a dangerous, complicated business, and getting more so by the hour. Rafe stalked the streets until long after midnight, thinking hard about the new development.

  Since Maggie was an expert at espionage, he had assumed that she would not make foolish errors of judgment. That had been careless of him. While he still refused to believe that she would deliberately betray her country, in the future he would be more skeptical of her actions.

  Though her affair with Anderson might be irrelevant to the business at hand, it was safer to assume the worst. Women were just as susceptible to misjudging bedmates as men were. If Anderson was a traitor, he might be using Maggie exactly as she had used countless other men.

  By the time Rafe reached his hotel, he had decided on a strategy. He knew enough of Maggie's stubborn independence to be sure that if he asked her not to see Anderson, she would laugh in his face. Rafe would have to become her lover so that he would have more influence over her. Then he would tell her to get rid of Anderson—and any other damned men she had on her string.

  He had wanted to bed her for purely physical reasons. Now that desire was reinforced by a need to secure her loyalty. For the sake of their mission, he was prepared to use every weapon he had to gain the upper hand with Maggie.

  How convenient that in this instance, duty would march with pleasure.

  He didn't doubt that ultimately he would be successful; he had never failed to win a woman he really wanted. But he would have to move very carefully. Since time was critical, he daren't risk antagonizing her. Rather than make a straight financial offer, he would first soften her resistance with expensive gifts.

  He also decided that he should develop some information sources of his own. A wealthy lord has many employees; it took Rafe only a few minutes to think of two clever, discreet, and trustworthy Frenchmen who worked for him.

  Before going to bed, he wrote a letter to his agent, summoning both men to Paris immediately.

  * * *

  Robin looked tired and worried, which was unusual, so after giving him a welcoming kiss Maggie insisted that he join her in a midnight supper. They sat at the kitchen table and worked their way through pate, sliced squab, and sundry other delicacies that had been left by Maggie's cook.

  When they finished, he pushed the remnants aside. "Nothing like good food to restore one's optimism. Did you learn anything useful this evening?"

  Maggie described her encounter with Colonel von Fehrenbach, ending with her conclusion that he was probably not the man behind the conspiracy. "Now it's your turn, Robin. What has happened to worry you?"

  He ran his right hand restlessly through his hair. It was a paler blond than Maggie's and looked silvery in the candlelight. "An informant told me that someone has been making discreet inquiries for a brave fellow who would like to bring down 'the Conqueror of the Conqueror of the World.'"

  Maggie bit her lip. The Parisians had hung that nickname on the Duke of Wellington after his victory at Waterloo. It was appropriate, since Bonaparte had gotten into the habit of thinking himself the Conqueror of the World, and Wellington had most certainly cleared up that bit of hyperbole.

  "So they really are going for Wellington," she said with depression. "They could hardly make a better choice for stirring up a hornets' nest. Were there any indications of who was making the inquiries?"

  "Only that it was a Frenchman, which fits with the conclusion you reached tonight." Robin polished off the last slice of pate. "How are things going with Candover?"

  Maggie shrugged and traced a pattern on the table in a few spilled drops of wine. "You were right, he's an excellent cover for my inquiries. He's perceptive, too—he reached the same conclusion about von Fehrenbach that I did. But I'm concerned..." Her voice trailed off.

  "About what?"

  "Though he's been cooperative so far, tonight he made a remark about me dragging him around like a fur muff to disguise my activities." Robin chuckled, but she said seriously, "For the moment it amuses him to play this game. I don't doubt his patriotism, but I'm afraid of what he might do when he is no longer amused."

  Robin's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

  "Only that he is used to being in charge, and doing exactly what he wants. The man is no fool, but if he gets all lordly and pigheaded at the wrong time, it could cause serious problems."

  Robin's blue eyes crinkled slightly around the corners. "I rely on you to keep him in line."

  Maggie leaned back in her chair, suddenly exhausted. "You overrate my abilities, my dear."

  "I doubt it." He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "I'll be going along now. Who will your next target be?"

  "I hope to intercept the Count de Varenne within the next day or two. He lives outside of Paris, but he is a habitué of the king's court and attends many social events. I should be able to further my acquaintance with him soon."

  Maggie followed Robin to the back door. When he gave her a good-bye kiss, she put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. She had a sudden, intense desire to ask him to spend the night with her. Not only did she yearn for the warmth and fulfillment of lovemaking, but perhaps he would be able to drive thoughts of Rafe from her mind.

  But she said nothing, for using Robin in such a way would be unforgivable. Nor would it be more than a temporary cure for what ailed her. Sadly she said, "When will this be over, Robin?"

  He was touched by the note in her voice. For a moment, Maggie sounded like the girl she had not been able to be for too many years. He put his arms around her, holding her tight for a little longer than was wise. "Soon, my dear. Then we can all go home to England."

  She looked up at him, her eyes widening. "Do you want to go back to England, too?"

  "Perhaps." He gave a teasing smile. "I shall lie down until the feeling goes away."

  Then he was gone. Maggie bolted the door after him, thinking that it was the first time Robin had ever shown any desire to see his homeland. Even he, with his eternal energy and good nature, must be weary of the endless deceit, and the tension that was a constant companion.

  In that case, she was quite justified in having a few tears of exhaustion in her eyes, wasn't she? After all, she was only a woman.

  Chapter 7

  The next afternoon was hot, and most of the fashionable ladies who had come to St. Germain lolled under shade trees, leaving the walks private for Maggie and Hélène. Maggie was glad that her friend had requested this meeting, for there was much to discuss.

  They spent some time exchanging the usual pleasantries of friends who hadn't seen each other in a while. Hélène had just returned from taking her two young daughters to their grandmother's home near Nantes, where she had stayed several weeks before returning alone to Paris.

  Though she wanted her daughters out of harm's way, Hélène felt an obligation to contribute what she could to the cause of peace. Until terms for a treaty were settled, information was critical, and she was well placed to hear rumors. She knew that what she learned was passed to the British, and her love for her country was so strong that she chose to do what some would call treason.

  The two strolled along the garden paths in their wispy muslin dresses, for all the world like any other ladies of leisure. Only when they were well clear of possible eavesdroppers did Maggie ask, "Have you heard anything of special interest? Your note implied urgency."

  "Yes." Hélène's brow furrowed. "I have heard that someone is plotting to assassinate Lord Castlereagh."

  Maggie inhaled sharply. "Where did you hear that?"

  "One of my maids has a brother who works in a gambling hell at the Palais Royale. He heard two men talking very late last night, careless from too much wine."

  "Could the brother identify the men?"

  Hélène shook her head. "No, the light was poor and he only overheard a fragment of conversation while serving someone at the next table. He thought that on
e was a Frenchman and the other probably a foreigner—German or English, perhaps. The Frenchman asked if the plan was set, and the other man said that Castlereagh would be out of the way within a fortnight."

  Maggie was silent as she tried to assimilate this new piece of information. Was this the same plot that she was pursuing, or a separate one? She felt as if she were trying to find a needle in a cellar at midnight. As they entered a new path between bright flowerbeds, she briefly outlined what little she knew of the conspiracy.

  Hélène's face became bleak as she listened. "It sounds very dangerous. With so many troops of all nations around, the slightest spark could set France into flames again."

  "I know," Maggie said grimly. "But other such plots have failed. God willing, this one will too." Shifting the subject, she asked, "What do you know of Colonel von Fehrenbach?"

  Hélène's softly rounded face was shadowed under her lacy parasol and her voice gave no clue to her thoughts. Though the two women were friends, each had her secrets. "Not very much. We've met several times at social events. He is like many of the Prussian officers—angry, and determined to see France suffer."

  "Forgive me if I seem to pry, Hélène," Maggie said hesitantly. "But is there anything between you two?"

  "He sees me and thinks of everything he hates," her friend said in a colorless voice. "Apart from that, there is nothing."

  "Do you think he might be involved in this plot?"

  "He is an uncomplicated man and would have no use for plots." With a wintry smile, Hélène added, "Not unlike my late husband, Etienne, going forward bravely, unperturbed by doubt or common sense. Do you have reason to suspect the colonel?"

  "Not really. Von Fehrenbach is well placed to do mischief, but my assessment agrees with yours. Still, if you should see him again and observe anything suspicious, you will let me know?"

  "Of course." Hélène gestured at an unoccupied bench under a chestnut tree. "Shall we sit while you tell me about that magnificent Englishman you have attached?"